Hello.  I guess this will be an authors note....  Blame this on my computer,
it died, I got bored and decided to actually write down some pieces of this
story.  Eventually it will (assuming I ever post anymore of it) turn into a
crossover, Probably with A!MG, the Norns just work out so well for one of the
things I want to do.  Any flames, comments, criticisms, declarations of
inaproprietness for this list, etc... are welcome, send to
failedagain@hotmail.com.  And, yes, Jonathon does seem very cliche, doesn't
he?
Oh, and I hope the format is legible (if anyone is actually reading this...)

Part1: (no title)

Iron.

Blood.

Pain.

Death.

Jonathon's hands clutch convulsively at the bed sheets, sweat streams from
him, as he lies, gasping for breath, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He shivers, and tears join the trails of sweat running down his face.  A
single word is whispered, barely audible in the darkness.

"again."

Groaning, he rises unsteadily to his feet, staggering towards the bathroom.
Running a hand through his damp hair, he glances at his reflection.

"God I look awful."  He winces away from his mirror-twin and reaches for the
shower door.  "But, then I always do after.."  He sighs again, almost a sob as
the hot water lashes down.  The stinging stream sweeps away both sweat and
tears, and the fog of his uneasy sleep fades into memory, leaving only a
nervous energy, the need to move, to run, jump, to do SOMETHING.

"Well," he growls in irritation, "It's not like I'll be getting anymore sleep
tonight."

With a growing anger, he strides through the chill seeming bedroom, dressing
in a barely controlled, ineffectual, and undirected rage.  The door slams
behind him, the stairs rush by three at a time, and the cold winter air
welcomes him into its chilly embrace as he runs into the night.

He wanders, his feet going where they will.  The anger bleeds away as the
pavement passes under his feet.  Hours pass in the neon jungle.  He moves at a
constant jog, darting through the thin groups of late night denizens with a
practiced ease.  His mind fades back into the joy of exertion, ignoring the
passing world.

Stretch, breath, faster, move, freedom, run, move, breath..

He stops.

He can smell the dew-wet grass under his feet; the first hint of false-dawn is
lighting the horizon.  He smiles, breathing in the scent of life around him.
Falling back into the dampness of the lawn, he stares at the vanishing stars.
He is alive, and surrounded by life, and this brings him a strange,
inexplicable joy..

Fear and pain invade the joyous growth around him, splitting the early morn
calm.  Instantly Jonathon moves, barreling through the thin growth of the City
Park, calm being flooded under a storm of anger.  The scream fades, but he
continues to run, fighting his rage every step of the way.

"I.  Will.  Not!  IwillNot!   Iwillnotiwillnotiwillnot!"  

He bursts into the clearing.  And before him, he sees dream made real. 

"I will."

He lets the anger go.

The first man- no, boy- screams as Jonathon's three rapid-fire strikes turn
the vertebrae of his lower back into powder.  

The second turns, but the moments notice is far from enough.  His body thumps
dully against the earth, breastbone shattered, and fragmented ribs shredding
into his lungs with every breath.

The third is on his knees between the woman's legs.  Jonathon's flying kick
throws him across the small clearing, his skull making a wet crunching sound
as it slams against a tree trunk

The fourth knows something about unarmed combat, throwing a halfway decent
roundhouse kick.  His slight skill earns him a shattered kneecap, fractured
hip, and splintered femur.

And the fifth?

Gunfire crashes, six sharp reports momentarily drowning out the screams and
moans of this boy's former companions. 

The boy is a bad shot.

Taking the gun, Jonathon leaves this foolish would-be gunslinger with a pair
of mangled hands, a broken arm, and fractured ribs.

Gasping, for breath, he stares down upon the five.  KILL THEM!  His rage
screams, burning underneath the surface.  KILL THEM!

Slowly he forces his body to take slow, rhythmic breaths, forcing the searing
wall of anger back.

"I am in control."  He whispers.

But he knows this is a lie.

He sags, not from any physical exhaustion, but from the emotional war raging
within.  A war he is losing.  It scares him.

"damn."

He falls to his knees.

"damn."

No, he realizes, no self-pity.  Not now, help these ones first.

Scrambling to his feet, he stumbles to the woman's side.  She cowers away from
him, clutching at her torn clothing.  He stretches forth his hand, words of
support upon the tip of his tongue.  

She faints.

With a practiced touch, he carefully assesses her injuries.  He smiles as his
hand encounters the solid plastic of a cellular phone.

The call is short.  Medical help is dispatched.  It will arrive in moments the
jaded operator assures him.  Paramedics arrive,  the police are just minutes
behind.  Jonathon brushes a hand along the blond woman's worry-lined cheek as
they load her unconscious form into the ambulance. 

Dream was not made reality.

It was not Her.  (You failed her).  

She's gone.  (and it's your fault).  

Damn them.  (and damn you too).

The dawn comes.

And the waiting begins.

Again.